We have all encountered the stereotypical ugly American. I met him once in London's Hyde Park among the enormous throng that had gathered to watch the fireworks display honouring the wedding of the Prince of Wales and Lady Diana Spencer.

It was an extravagant pyrotechnic display, set to Handel's Music for the Royal Fireworks, but no sooner had it ended than a young American near me, brandishing a copy of Stars and Stripes, announced loudly to his friend, and to about 200 astonished Britons around him:

"That was nothing. They do this every night at Disney World."

I met him again outside the main entrance to the Forum in Rome, which had closed for a two-hour siesta at precisely the time of day when most tourists start to arrive. To my amazement, an older American couple disregarded the multi-lingual sign, denounced the closure as "ridiculous," and proceeded to clamber over an imposing iron railing. They were immediately greeted by a carabiniero- wielding a sub-machine gun. Instead of a hasty retreat and effusive apology, the couple then proceeded to berate the officer -- who showed admirable restraint -- the husband declaring "in the U.S. of A. this would be open 24 hours a day!" as he was moved along at the butt end of the Beretta.

And I met him most recently in Paris. I was walking with a French friend when an American overheard us speaking English and exclaimed, "Excuse me! excuse me! I have a question for you: Is it safe to drink the water?" I could see the hair rise on the back of my French friend's neck. He was clearly furious at the attendant implication that Paris was a Third World backwater, but pretended to be helpful. "No, madame, the water comes straight from a sewage lagoon," he said, "Never drink the water. You must drink Wattwiller instead. Brush your teeth in it. Even bathe in it." He helpfully wrote down the name of the product, a very expensive brand of "luxury" water sold in France.

We all have stories like these, and being Canadians, we collect them assiduously. We prefer to forget the innumerable gracious and erudite Americans we meet, much preferring the exception since there is nothing quite like an encounter with a Yankee boor to feed our national conceit. In my experience, swapping ugly American stories at dinner parties is almost a national pastime, the cocktail hour equivalent to the Maple Leaf Flag patch sewn onto the backpacks of brigades of smirking Canadian youth abroad.

The truth, of course, is that Canadians can be every bit as ugly.

On a recent overseas trip, I watched as a group of them descended on an American passenger in a lounge and proceeded to upbraid him over everything from softwood lumber to the Kyoto Accord, from liberal U.S. gun laws to the Iraq War and Guantanamo Bay. What started as a convivial if spirited discussion gradually degenerated into a display of the very kind of jingoism and chest-thumping Canadians love to associate with Americans: Except it was the American who was getting his face rubbed in it. It reached the point where I started to think if he really did have a concealed weapon, this might be an appropriate time to make that fact known. To his credit, the American victim of Canadian gang smugging remained unfailingly polite through it all.

I have since seen this pattern repeated, and it has made me begin to reflect about why it is Canadians feel compelled to treat every American they encounter as if he were personally complicit in every perceived failing of U.S. policy. One thing is certain, the conceit shared by Canadians that they are devoid of nationalism and any sense of cultural superiority and are, hence, much less objectionable that other nationalities, is patently false. I am starting to think those mystery planes circling the globe are actually Canadian-leased aircraft transporting Americans as involuntary dinner guests to homes in Toronto's respectable neighbourhoods, where they will be harangued -- tortured may not be too strong a word -- for three hours by a group of self-satisfied Canadians.

The problem with Canadians, particularly intelligent Canadians, is that as soon as they have a captive American, they cannot resist the temptation to start poking him with sticks and laughing. Such spectacles are no less ugly than anything to be found in a track suit and foam dome on the Champs-Elysees.